The first time she came back from her mid-States bullshit, she sees him only once.

She's parked in the pharmacy lot, and she looks over from the passenger seat, and she's pretty sure it's him. She'd had a very contained panic attack, refusing to look at him, refusing to breath.

It was September 8th, 2007.

She left and came back again in 2010. Runs into him again at the unlikeliest place: a lawn sale in one of the smallest towns of their county. He's just sitting there on the porch, smoking a butt, and he says, "Hey."

The second she realizes who it is, she doesn't even take the time to process the look on his face, she only parrots the hey and turns away. She has no idea what he may have thought to see her getting out of the car.

Then the county Field Days- July 27th-, and they don't even acknowledge each other. They don't even share a glance, but she's hyper aware of him. They keep a healthy distance.

It's always been really hard for her, trying to figure out how she's supposed to feel, and how she really feels. She's not supposed to wish for her rapist. She's not supposed to wish she could walk right up to him and smile. (They've always told her she didn't react the way she was meant to. Like it invalidated it. Like it made her a liar.) She's not supposed to wish for their old familiarity or intimacy. She's not supposed to dream of him at the most random times of her life, when he was usually the last thought on her mind- as if her subconscious would not allow her to forget him.

She doesn't face how badly she wants to see him, not really, until he asks, Do you still smoke? I'd like to give you an apology to your face.

She has a million tiny panic attacks just thinking about it.

What would she do? How could she handle it? She doesn't want him to think she's scared of him, or traumatized, if she starts bawling the second he's within five feet. How would she explain the sudden need to curl up in herself and regulate her breathing? Or touch him, hug him, hold his hand. Or her inability to really meet his eyes. Would she have to tell him I'm sorry for being such a girl.

Or I know it doesn't affect you the same, it's ok.

I'll be fine, ignore this.

Excusing her emotions, excusing the last ten excruciating years and all her silliness. Excusing how much she still feels for him, something like love and forgiveness and a want that can't be fulfilled.

She wishes it were simpler. That the lines were clearer. That truth wasn't so subjective, or blurred by time passed. That she could read his mind and know where he stood in this. She wishes she knew if he thought of her over the years, if he'd ever dreamed of her, too. Missed her. Been haunted by her.

She wishes there was a manual for this, someone to help her navigate.

She wonders. She wishes.

She hears the imaginary voice she's created for him in her head, saying, It is what it is.